Shield of Thunder (24 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE FEAR OF KALLIADES

Workmen had labored all night under torchlight to complete the games areas. A large section of flat ground had been leveled and stamped to create a stadium for the runners and javelin throwers, the jumpers, the boxers, and the wrestlers. A long hippodrome had been created some four hundred paces west of the stadium, with a high embankment that was now set with benches and seats for the privileged. There the chariot and horse races would be held. The main judges’ dais had been erected at the hippodrome, with intricately fashioned seats of ivory and wood inlaid with gold. A second, smaller dais had been constructed at the stadium. The organization of the games, under the direction of the king’s son Polites, had been fraught with difficulties. No one had known how many competitors would seek to participate or, indeed, the size of the crowds. Initially Polites had thought a few hundred athletes would travel to Troy. Already there were more than a thousand. As to those wishing to enjoy the spectacle, the estimates had risen from six thousand to around sixteen thousand. Even that figure was beginning to look conservative.

Polites paced back and forth before the smaller judges’ dais in the stadium. The dawn sun had not long cleared the horizon, and the last of the work was being completed, carpenters putting in place lines of benches, laborers dragging trestle tables from the backs of carts or hoisting linen canopies to shade the seating areas of the nobles.

Sixteen thousand! Polites rubbed at his temples. The headache had been with him for the last five days. Sixteen thousand people needing to eat, to urinate, to defecate, needing to be kept cool in the midday sun with supplies of water. For the common people there were latrine pits, but special buildings had been constructed where nobles could piss into pots like civilized folk.

Polites strode across the stadium, passing under the columned roof of the new
palaistra,
where athletes would prepare. Closed off from public scrutiny, the competitors could discuss tactics with their trainers, or hire masseurs, or take cold baths. Here, too, were the rooms of Asklepios, where physicians and surgeons would tend those wounded in the more dangerous events. Cuts to the faces of boxers would be stitched here, and the broken limbs of charioteers would be set. The greatest number of injuries would result from the chariot races, especially the four-horse contests. Not so much, Polites knew, from collisions, but from the sharp turns at either end of the long, narrow track. The course was set between two strong posts. To minimize the distance traveled, a skillful charioteer would rein in the inner horses while giving the outer beasts their heads. This would swing the chariot around the posts at speed. However, timing was crucial. Two years earlier, in Thraki, Polites had witnessed a ghastly accident. The charioteer Kreunos, famous for his skill, had been in the lead when he had mistimed his turn. The hub of his wheel struck the post, splintering the axle and catapulting the chariot into the air. Entangled in the reins, Kreunos was helpless. The horses ran wild, and Kreunos was smashed into the rails separating the crowd from the racers. His right leg was almost torn from his body, and he died a few days later.

Inside the
palaistra
Polites saw workmen filling the newly built baths under the guidance of the foreman, Choros, a slender Thrakian. Polites had come to trust the man implicitly. Beneath a gentle demeanor Choros was ferociously efficient, and only the very foolish gave less than their best when working for him.

“Greetings, my lord,” Choros said. “Fear not, we will be ready.”

“The regiments will be here soon,” Polites said. It was a redundant comment. Choros was well aware that this was the Day of the Judges. Polites’ mouth was dry, his heart hammering. Priam would be arriving soon after the regiments, and with him would be many of the guests. It would be appalling should anything go wrong on this first day. Priam would shame him before the kings.

He will shame me anyway, he thought. If a seabird shits on the running track, it will somehow be my fault. Though maybe not today. Polites had seen Priam earlier that morning, and the king had seemed in a joyous mood. May the gods cause that to last for the five days of the games, he prayed.

Leaving Choros with the workmen, he moved through the building, emerging at the rear onto a narrow walkway leading to the stables. They were empty at present, but later that day the first of the horses would be brought in to be examined by the judges and marked for competition. Polites went on past the stands where the crowds would gather, then through the gate and onto the racetrack. There he kicked off his sandals. Slaves had been working for days to remove all the loose stones from the surface before tamping it flat. Even so, the chariot wheels would bite deep on the turns, and it was almost certain that some jagged piece of rock would be dug up and flung into the crowds. Polites slowly walked the length of the course between the turning posts, scanning the ground. The new judges would be performing the same task a little later, and their eyes would be keener than his, he knew.

At the last games, five years before, Polites had been merely a spectator. He had not appreciated the intensity of the work involved in preparation. Had it not been for the involvement of his half brother Antiphones, he knew he would have made a mess of it. It was a depressing thought. Polites left the track and climbed up onto the embankments, seating himself on a new bench and running his hand lightly along the polished wood. No sign of splinters.

“The first thing to do,” Antiphones had told him when Father first had given Polites his role, “is to find good foremen, men you can trust to see the work through. Assign each man a specific task, then appoint an overseer to coordinate the work.” Antiphones had been recovering from his wounds then, but he had kept a brotherly eye on the organization. Polites was grateful yet curiously resentful. Antiphones was clever and quick-witted, his mind able to grasp complexities with ease. Polites always needed time to think problems through and invariably would become lost in alternatives, unable to make a decision.

As he sat on the bench, his heart sank. In what do you excel, Polites? he asked himself. You cannot run, and you cannot ride well. You are no fighter, nor are you a thinker. He thought of his garden and the joy it gave him. Even that did not lift his spirits, for many of the new seedlings would die now that he had been forced to turn his palace over to Agamemnon. Uncared for, they would wither in the fierce sunlight.

In the distance Polites could hear the sound of marching feet. The regiments were moving, gathering there to select the hundred judges, the Incorruptibles. Now,
there
is something to be grateful for, he thought. You could have been a soldier and then been chosen for such a thankless role. He wondered why any common soldier would agree to become a judge. For five days, under the baleful gaze of kings and nobles, the judges would make decisions on races and events on which fortunes had been wagered. They would endure the wrath of monarchs and sometimes the fury of the crowds. For this they would receive no reward save a small silver token shaped like a discus and bearing the embossed image of Father Zeus. For five days these former peasants would have powers beyond those of kings and be expected to use them wisely and without favor.

Well, that was the theory. Would any judge go against Priam, knowing that within five days he would once again be no more than a soldier and subject to the whims of the king? Hardly.

Polites rose from the bench and made his way back along the racetrack, put on his sandals, and returned through the stables and the
palaistra
to watch the selection of the judges. Soon Father would be there. Polites’ stomach turned. What have I missed? he wondered. What hideous error will he discover?

∗ ∗ ∗

In the middle of a large crowd Kalliades and Banokles made their way up the long slope to the Scaean Gate. Banokles was happy to be free of the ship, but Kalliades had felt a sinking of the heart as they had sighted the city. The voyage had been dreamlike, with no sense of the passing of time. Kalliades had stood with Piria on the deck of the
Penelope,
walked with her on moonlit beaches, laughed with her and joked with her. Now here they were, at the end of their journey. Soon he would be saying farewell to her, and the thought frightened him. She can never love you, he told himself. Better to say farewell than to watch her run into the arms of her lover with never a backward glance toward you. No, it was not better. To wake to a day when he could not gaze at her face was unthinkable.

“You ever seen Odysseus that angry?” Banokles asked. “I thought he was in a rage when we fought the pirates, but today his face was so red, I thought he’d bleed from the ears.”

“He was furious,” Kalliades agreed, recalling the moment when Odysseus had tried to steer the
Penelope
toward Priam’s private beach. A small boat manned by a beachmaster and several sailors had cut across them.

“You cannot beach here,” the master yelled.

Odysseus rushed to the prow and stared angrily down at the man. “You moron,” he shouted. “I am Odysseus, king of Ithaka. With me are Nestor of Pylos and Idomeneos of Kretos. This is where all the vessels of kings beach. Now move away or I’ll sink you.”

The beachmaster called out to some soldiers on the beach. Some twenty of them came running forward, hands on their sword hilts. “My orders are explicit, King Odysseus,” the beachmaster replied. “No more ships are to beach here. You may sink this craft if you will, but those soldiers will still prevent your landing. There will be bloodshed. I promise you that.”

Kalliades moved away from Odysseus. The man had been shamed before his crew and before his fellow kings. The Ugly King stood there, blinking in the sunlight, almost unable to speak. It was Bias who called out for the men to reverse oars and draw back, and the
Penelope
sailed farther along the bay. They beached some distance from the city, and the men clambered down to the sand. Odysseus remained at the stern, arms folded across his chest. The other kings, Nestor and Idomeneos, did not speak to him as they, too, departed the ship. Even Bias walked away without a word.

Piria approached Kalliades. “The slight has pierced him like a dagger,” she said.

“I fear so. Banokles and I are going into the city to enter the games,” he said. “Would you like to accompany us?”

“I cannot. I could be recognized by…by those who would cause me harm. Odysseus says I should remain here.”

And so Kalliades and Banokles had left her.

Kalliades stopped to ask directions from some soldiers at the Scaean Gate. Then the two comrades moved on, angling away from the crowd. Banokles spotted two whores standing in the shade of a building and waved at them.

“We need to find the gathering field,” Kalliades said.

Banokles sighed. “And we’ve no wealth. Should have known that bastard would not surrender his breastplate. A curse on all kings!” Kalliades paused. Streets branched off in all directions, and he was gazing at the columned buildings. “Are we lost?”

“Not yet,” Kalliades replied, heading on.

“Do we have a plan yet?”

“For what?”

“For life in Troy. Like…where are we going to stay?”

Kalliades laughed. “You were there when Odysseus told us we would be lodged at Hektor’s palace. You were standing right beside me.”

“I wasn’t listening. I leave that sort of thing to you. Did you notice the size of the walls as we walked up to the city? They looked large the last time we were here, but in daylight they are massive. I wouldn’t want to be on a ladder trying to scale them.”

“You won’t have to. We are Mykene no longer. Which reminds me: Should we see anyone we know, do not shout a greeting or walk up to them.”

“Why would I do anything that stupid?”

“I am sorry, my friend. I was merely thinking aloud. The city is under truce for the games, but there is still a bounty on our heads. And there will be many Mykene here.”

Finally they found their way to the gathering field northeast of the city. Scores of tents had been erected there, and scribes were taking down the names of contestants at dozens of bench tables.

Eventually both Banokles and Kalliades registered to take part and were given thin copper tokens embossed with numbers and an image of the event. They were told to return the next day at dawn for the preliminaries.

At the edge of the field a cooking area had been set up, two charcoal pits in which bulls were being roasted on spits. The two men sat in the shade of a large canvas canopy and ate. “I think this bull died of old age,” Banokles grumbled. “I haven’t eaten meat this stringy since we invaded Sparta. You remember? That old goat Eruthros killed? I swear it was all hoof, bone, and sinew. Not a piece of meat on it.”

“Rations were short,” Kalliades recalled. “I remember digging up roots and ripping bark off trees to add to the stew.”

“Good fighters those Spartans. If there’d been more of them, we’d have been in real trouble.” Banokles laughed. “They must really have angered the gods, eh? First they get beaten in a battle, and then they end up with Menelaus as king.”